The man who was not my father
had a hook where his hand should have been.
I imagine him twisting it into my mother’s belly.
Where once a child had dwelt, now nothing,
except a dense, dead star, devouring everything around it,
every ray of light, every moment of joy.
The living orbited around the body of the deceased,
drawn to its inviting darkness,
trapped there by its terrible gravity.
The man who was not my father
thought he could make me a daughter,
because he didn’t understand that I was never a girl.
I was the answer to a question whispered to the universe.
Can a mother make a child who will love her forever?
Maybe other mothers could. But mine could not.

06/10/2016

Posted on 06/21/2016
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